You pick up the old threads
across many oceans in a land faraway,
where the afternoon air is similarly crisp,
where leaves are turning
from green to yellow to gold — rust and incarnadine —
blood’s love-promise to be kept
for a future fleeting meeting —
for a dream that is yet to be fulfilled.

But for now,
fantasy is real, jovial and feather-light —
as are the elements outside.
Your heart skips a beat in joy’s frolic — yearning.